


You Want To Step With This

by luchia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood Friends, Ice Skating, M/M, This Is A Figure Skating AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:38:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is in second to last place in his amateur professional figure skating league because Grantaire won't stop beating him at losing. Meanwhile, tiny Enjolras and Grantaire grow up very dramatically. Or maybe 'earlier.' Maybe it's still happening, since the childhood drama refuses to go away no matter how long ago it was. Point is: this is the story of two idiots in love who occasionally ice skate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Want To Step With This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamslytherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamslytherlocked/gifts).



> This fic was masterfully beta'd by [annaroserae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/annaroserae) and I am endlessly grateful. It would have been so, so bad without her. Thank you so much for your time and editing!!!
> 
> Prompt: _ice skating au, enjolras and grantaire are both figure skaters, and the les amis can be involved like being one of their coaches or agents or even fellow skaters, open to any other relationships apart from exr, porn is okay but not needed, plot up to author's choice._ I have a feeling this is not what you are looking for, but I did my best. Hope you like it anyway!
> 
> Title is lyrics from this song: [[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rog8ou-ZepE)

There are fifteen types of ice. All of them can kill you.

Cautious movement is the most certain method of survival. Keep moving, go slow, know your limits, be _careful_.

Figure skating is not about careful.

Figure skating is planting the toe pick of your blade into the ice for a heartbeat, pushing into the air, spinning tight and quick and sharp, and praying you land perfectly on the edge of a blade that isn’t even five millimeters wide. The blade isn’t even _straight_ – it’s curved, with a groove in the center of it dragging all the way down the blade, leaving two tiny sharp edges for a skater to spin on, and jump on, and land on.

Almost all skating is done on an indoor ice rink because a chip or bump in the ice can break an ankle. The higher your level, the more important ice quality is, to the point of a Zamboni coming out every two groups.

Enjolras stands at the edge of a frozen pond. There’s a dusting of snow across the ice, and just enough of a breeze to make tiny puffs of snow drift from the banks and into the air. It’s in the middle of nowhere. He had to hike in, fighting his way through thick layers of snow with large, heavy boots, and now that he’s here, he can do nothing but stare down at the ice, scared to take a breath. His skates are still in his hands, blades unsheathed.

This happens every year. Every single year, since he was seventeen. Enjolras stands in this exact spot, and there he comes. Out of the white trees, bundled up in an orange coat more suited to the Antarctic, Grantaire comes crunching his way through the snow at the opposite end of the pond. He too stops at the very edge of the ice.

He could shout over. He could wave. He could _nod_.

Enjolras is silent and still, watching Grantaire as Grantaire watches him back.

Last year, this was as far as they got. Grantaire had simply stood there for a minute or two, and then silently headed back the way he came.

Enjolras nearly drops his skates when Grantaire drops into the snow, taking his boots off, and pulling his own skates out from a backpack. He covers the clumsiness by doing the same, watching carefully to see whether or not Grantaire’s going to stop. Two years ago, Grantaire managed one skate and then stopped, but this year he’s already on the second and Enjolras is almost having trouble keeping up with how quickly he’s lacing himself up.

And then, Grantaire steps onto the ice.

There’s no cracking. There’s nothing but Grantaire looking dangerously determined and Enjolras floundering to keep up, standing carefully on wild ice.

They know ice.

They know _this_ ice.

They know this is a very bad idea.

_Do it_ , Enjolras thinks, and prays his face is expressionless, impassive, nothing but waiting. _Do it, do it, do it._

Grantaire steps forward.

 

+

 

“That can’t be right,” Enjolras says, still staring at his scores. Combeferre is dead silent next to him, indulging him, because Enjolras has probably been staring at the scoreboard for at least ten minutes. “That _can’t_ be right, I fell _twice_ , why-”

“You’re not willing to just be glad we’re not cut from the circuit and move along?” Combeferre says, although from his tone he really obviously doesn’t expect Enjolras to do that. He puts a hand on Enjolras’ sequins-covered shoulder. “Besides, everyone knows you can do better than today.”

“But I _didn’t_ do better,” Enjolras says, looking the judges’ way with a glare. “My performance was appalling, Combeferre. This is blatant favoritism.”

“I doubt that,” Courfeyrac says cheerily, popping up from nowhere on Enjolras’ other side and guiding him towards the locker room. Or away from the rink, at least. “Pretty much everyone hates you.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Enjolras says. “That’s exactly my point. Did someone bribe them? What motive do they have here?”

“The motive of actually making money, maybe?” Courfeyrac points up at the very empty stands. Well, mostly empty. There’s a scattering of people in the stands, spread out in a pattern that looks like the world’s slowest game of Tetris. It’s true that amateur professional figure skating is not exactly a sold out show kind of event.

Enjolras is about to ask what he has to do with that, but then he remembers his cheering section, the most kind and well-meaning stalkers known to humanity. Having Enjolras on the circuit means Enjolras’ fans are on the circuit, meaning reliable income, meaning they want to keep him regardless of his ability to land a triple lutz. Or a double lutz. Or any jumps, _period_. Today was not a good day.

“But hey, at least you aren’t last place,” Courfeyrac says.

He doesn’t sound happy about it, which means only one thing.

Enjolras sighs. “Did he even show up to the rink?”

“Oh, he did,” Courfeyrac says. “He even went out on the ice.”

Which is…unusual. Enjolras frowns. “Then why did he lose?”

“He didn’t perform,” Courfeyrac says.

“But you said-”

“He went on the ice,” Courfeyrac says. “And he just kind of skated in a circle for two minutes.”

“In other words, he did just enough to count as an official score in the competition,” Combeferre says.

And it’s true. At the bottom of the scoreboard, just below Enjolras’ name, stands Grantaire, with a grand total of 3 points.

In other words, Grantaire did just enough to keep Enjolras from being dead last.

“I’m going to kill him.”

 

-

 

Grantaire gives Enjolras the same exact smile every single time he spots him. It’s a slow giddy self-satisfied kind of thing, as if Enjolras is somehow losing a competition with him just by approaching.

“You’re looking particularly sparkly today,” Grantaire says.

“Yelling at you is more important than changing,” Enjolras bites out. They’re in the parking lot and Enjolras genuinely doesn’t care that he’s got rhinestones and sequins all over his very tight outfit.

“That’s possibly the kindest thing you have ever said to me,” Grantaire says, leaning against his busted old jeep, getting comfortable. “Okay, go ahead.”

“What made you think I need you to save me?” Enjolras says. “I _don’t_. I can take care of myself.”

“I know that,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras throws his hands into the air in frustration and tries to ignore the flutter of feathers on his cuffs. “Then _what_ _were you doing_?”

“Skating,” Grantaire says, amused.

“I’ve seen you skate.” Enjolras shakes his head. “If you’d actually performed, I would know. I didn’t even hear your music go on-”

“I didn’t give them music,” Grantaire says, and gestures down to his everyday clothing. “I was wearing _this_ Enjolras. I even borrowed skates from the rental window. I don’t have my gear. Any of it.”

And Grantaire is too cautious to ever try anything in a borrowed pair of figure skates beyond exactly what he did – lazy circles around the ice.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, frowning as he looks from Grantaire to his jeep. “Did someone break into your car?”

“You know I don’t actually live in my car, right?” Grantaire asks.

He hates talking to Grantaire. He _hates_ it, because Grantaire is the only person on the entire planet who can make Enjolras turn into a tongue-tied idiot who says the wrong thing every single time.

And worst of all, Grantaire just looks _amused_ , almost indulgent. He plants a finger against Enjolras’ chest, and Enjolras had no idea he’d gotten this close. The other thing he hates about talking to Grantaire is that he makes Enjolras blush. He hates blushing.

“Sorry to disappoint, Enjolras, but my life doesn’t actually revolve around you,” Grantaire says, and pushes him back gently.

“I know that. I know that! I never thought – god, okay. I’m going to leave now,” Enjolras says.

“You don’t have to,” Grantaire says, still so soft and amused, as Enjolras speed walks back into the building.

 

+

 

“I know what I’m going to do,” Enjolras declares. “I’m going to expose them. I’m going to show everyone just how wrong this ridiculous favoritism situation is.” He leans forward, looking at Combeferre and Courfeyrac as directly as possible. “I am going to lose. I am going to lose so catastrophically that there’s no way they can get away with this.”

“Just don’t punch any judges,” Combeferre mutters, and pours everyone another round.

 

+

 

It’s cold and miserable. Even indoors, there’s always a chill in the drafty old mansion. It is by _far_ the worst winter holiday Enjolras has ever had.

But, the alternative is being with his family, so Enjolras guesses it’s not _that_ bad.

His parents _finally_ got fed up with him, and had said, “we’ll send you somewhere to work out your anger,” and Enjolras had been given a list. At least there was a choice involved. And Enjolras had watched his parents’ faces, and picked the one they grimaced the most at – figure skating.

Now, he’s staying in a mansion with eleven other children, and every day, they go out on the perfectly frozen pool that sits in a manicured garden. Every other day, they go to the nearby ice rink. Enjolras isn’t quite sure what they’re supposed to be doing, but their instructors are taking most of the children through jumps and spins and skating backwards.

He hates not being good at something. He hates falling on his face every two minutes, hates being outside in the cold, hates the entire concept of this. He should’ve picked something else. The instructors have left him in the corner with directions to just try and stay upright, and Enjolras is _trying_ but it’s not working. The other kids skate up and down the excessively long and ornate sheet of ice, while Enjolras just stands here holding on to a frozen fountain glaring at his skates.

“You’re thinking too hard,” someone says behind him, and Enjolras nearly falls all over again as he turns to look.

It’s a boy about Enjolras’ age, somewhere around twelve. He’s the one who shows up every now and then and skates like he was born to do it. Enjolras glares at him. “I didn’t ask you,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” the boy says, and just steps onto the ice, casual and confident, and glides over to pry Enjolras’ hand off of the cherub fountain, keeping it wrapped tight beneath his wool mittened fingers. He smiles. “By now, you know you’re going to fall. You also know you’ll survive it and there’s really not much to worry about other than a bruise or a headache. Stop trying to fight the ice.”

It’s the stupidest advice Enjolras has ever heard, but the boy starts skating backwards, still talking, and Enjolras fights to keep up.

“I’ve seen you around. You’re not very social, are you?” the boy asks, still smiling. “Well, a lot of kids are like that. It’s your first year here, right? You probably miss your parents.”

“No, I don’t,” Enjolras says, and scowls at him. When the boy raises an eyebrow, intrigued and open, Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Everyone involved decided it’d be better to avoid me ruining another Christmas, so here I am.”

“Ah, of course,” the boy hums, nodding.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras asks sharply.

“Well, you obviously hate figure skating, so I was kind of wondering why you’re here in the first place,” the boy says. “But you’ve got another three weeks to learn to love it. I’m confident we can turn you into a truly devoted and passionate figure skater by then.” He smiles. “You seem like a passionate kind of person.”

Enjolras does _not_ blush. It’s just the cold and the wind. The boy turns on the ice, effortlessly moving so he’s skating behind Enjolras, and holds on to his sides, just below his ribs. Enjolras is not blushing.

“Remember that whole _core_ thing everyone keeps talking about?” the boy asks.

“Yes?” Enjolras answers.

And then the boy shoves him forward.

Enjolras goes rocketing across the ice, flailing, but tries to frantically remember all the crap they’ve been impatiently not-quite-shouting at Enjolras and somehow manages to not fall. He doesn’t fall, and he manages to actually get control of himself, and suddenly, Enjolras is actually honest to god skating. It’s nothing fancy, nothing but staying upright, but he slows down and carefully turns, _carefully_ , to look back and see the boy grinning at him.

“You survived!” the boy shouts, and skates towards Enjolras, meeting him, nice and smooth and easy. Effortlessly. There’s the slightest bit of a twirl to his stop, a single spin and a tiny spray of shaved ice. “How’d it feel?”

Enjolras is completely aware that the boy is not talking about the whole holding him thing.

“What’s your name?” Enjolras asks.

“Oh,” the boy says, surprised. Which is probably fair. Enjolras hasn’t bothered with people’s names, which is bad of him. “I’m Grantaire. Are you ready to go again?”

Enjolras grimaces.

Grantaire laughs, as if Enjolras just told him a truly hilarious joke, and holds out his hand. Enjolras takes a deep breath, and grabs on. Grantaire smiles, and says, “Don’t be scared, I’ve got you.”

 

+

 

“Why are you even a figure skater?” the judge asks.

Enjolras says, “Because _fuck you_ ,” and punches him.

 

+

 

Grantaire is up.

Enjolras drops away from his conversation with Combeferre the second they announce his name, quickly moving to get a good enough view.

The important part to watch is his first step onto the rink. Or, to be exact, his hands. Even on an ice rink, where there’s a _Zamboni_ for assurances, if Grantaire is planning to actually skate-

Grantaire steps onto the ice, and crouches to slide his fingers across the surface. It’s not the usual millisecond-and-go move. It lasts for the entire length of Enjolras’ gasp.

He immediately grabs for Combeferre, getting a fistful of Combeferre’s jacket. “He’s going to skate,” Enjolras says quickly.

Combeferre is still comparatively new, so he says, “This is surprising?”

“No, I mean he’s going to _try_ ,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre makes a noise somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

It dies the second Grantaire starts moving.

Watching Grantaire skate, _really_ skate, is a privilege few people get, because Grantaire is so good that a halfhearted routine from Grantaire still usually puts him in the upper middle rankings. Most people don’t notice he yawns his way through a triple axel. But in moments like this, when Grantaire does the equivalent of finally fencing with his dominant hand, it’s humbling.

Every move is flawless, and absolutely breathtaking.

Grantaire spins to a breathless stop in dead silence.

Enjolras finally drops his death grip on Combeferre’s jacket and applauds as loud as he possibly can, and what audience there is joins in immediately. It’s deafening.

When Grantaire skates off, there’s the smallest of smiles on his lips.

“Wow,” Combeferre says.

“I hate time limits,” Enjolras says, and can’t help the wistful sigh that escapes his lungs. “He’s amazing.”

“That was incredible. What on Earth is Grantaire doing _here_ when he can do that?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras doesn’t _quite_ wince.

“Enjolras, what is he doing here?” Combeferre asks carefully.

 

+

 

“Ready to go again?” Grantaire asks, grinning, hands stretched across the ice and waiting for Enjolras to join him.

 

+

 

“Ready to go again?” Grantaire asks, a bittersweet smile on his face as he leans against the doorframe and watches Enjolras pack.

 

+

 

“Ready to go again?” Grantaire asks, smiling wickedly as he nips at Enjolras’ collarbone and hooks a thumb through the waist of Enjolras’ pants.

 

+

 

“Bet you can’t do _this_ ,” Grantaire says, and then does something that he _knows_ Enjolras can’t do. Again. And again. And then he switches it up with yet another thing that Enjolras can’t do but that Grantaire can grin his way through, still talking as he moves across the pond.

Enjolras has a humiliatingly massive crush on an absolute asshole.

This isn’t exactly a startling revelation or anything; he’s had _thoughts_ about Grantaire since they were fourteen and it’s kind of impossible to talk to Grantaire for more than twenty minutes and not realize he’s an asshole. No, the terrible part is that Enjolras is standing at the edge of the pond watching Grantaire show off as irritatingly as possible, and he thinks it’s cute. He’s smiling.

It starts to snow.

“Are you coming out here or not?” Grantaire asks, practically bouncing, which is kind of hilarious, but Grantaire was pretty much born skating, as far as Enjolras can tell. Stick him in normal shoes and he slumps, and slouches, and shuffles, but if he has skates on he’s unrestrained. He’s confident, like he believes even the wind couldn’t catch him if he wanted to outrun it.

If you want to talk to Grantaire, _really_ talk to him, you do it on ice.

Grantaire is satisfied the second Enjolras is standing on the ice, and goes back to showing off. Except it’s not quite showing off, so much as a release, as if he’s been freed, somehow. He _needs_ to do this, needs to just go somewhere and let go, and Enjolras gets to see that. This is about as open and honest as it’s ever going to get with Grantaire.

Enjolras ignores the anxious screaming inside of his head and says, “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure!” Grantaire says, and tosses Enjolras a smile, but doesn’t stop moving across the pond. Honestly, Enjolras isn’t sure he could stop skating even if he tried.

He shouldn’t be nervous. He _shouldn’t_. Enjolras has known Grantaire for years, and they’re sixteen now, and this will not go badly. Knowing that doesn’t keep his hands from shaking, knees locked up in an unhealthy way, but maybe action will. He clenches his hands into fists, actually skates out onto the ice with Grantaire, and says, “I like boys.”

Grantaire nods, still smiling. Though it’s softer now. Less manic, more affectionate. “Okay,” he says, and glides over to Enjolras. Being Grantaire, he naturally has to spray at least a little bit of shaved ice onto the leg of Enjolras’ pants when he stops. There’s a snowflake caught in his eyelashes. “Are people bothering you about it?”

The unspoken _did you expect me to do that_ is genuinely offensive, so Enjolras glares and grabs onto his sleeve. “I _can_ take care of myself, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire shrugs. “I never said you couldn’t. But you should know that if you do need help or something, about anything, really, I’d be.” He sighs, and not unkindly plucks Enjolras’ hand off of his sleeve, looking away. “I’d want to be there for you. You’re kind of helpless sometimes, you know? Seriously, it’s like watching baby Simba try to roar at that lizard, you know, right before-”

“Stop avoiding the real conversation,” Enjolras snaps, and he needs to be calm for this. He closes his eyes and breathes in and out, because he can be _very calm_ and he will _not_ explode.

He opens his eyes to the sound of Grantaire frantically skating away.

“Oh, you  – _Grantaire_! Get back here, you coward!” Enjolras shouts, and takes off after him. He’s nowhere near as fast, but he’s far from the inexperienced idiot he was when they met.  He glares at Grantaire’s back. “Listen, I _know_ you feel-”

“Hey, how about this weather? Let’s talk about the weather! I mean, look at all this snow, right? Wow, so much snow,” Grantaire shouts back, voice high. “That is so much more interesting and safe, let’s talk about snow. And ice!” He turns, skating backwards, hands held almost pleadingly. “There’s more than one kind of ice, you know! The-”

He falls.

Grantaire has time to gasp, and then his left leg is wrenched to the side, knee twisting, ankle buckling. Even with the distance, Enjolras can hear the crack of bone and sinew and so many important things. There’s nothing for Grantaire to grasp but falling snow.

There’s another crack when Grantaire hits the ice and goes limp.

When Enjolras reaches him (it’s not even a second, it’s not even enough time to say _no_ but it feels like hours of Grantaire sprawled lifeless on the ice), there’s blood on the ice beneath his head. He has a pulse, and he’s breathing more or less, and he’s alive, but when Enjolras says ( _shouts_ ) his name, there’s no response.

Grantaire wakes up when Enjolras tries to move him off of the ice, long enough to let out a scream as his leg moves, before passing out again.

“I don’t know what to do,” Enjolras whispers. He calls for help, both screaming out loud in the hopes someone nearby could hear and yelling at emergency services on his phone, but he knows it’s going to take time for anyone to reach them. He keeps himself curled around Grantaire, listening to him breathe, and thinks over and over again, _I don’t know what to do_.

People do come, eventually. They shoot Grantaire full of _something_ and then move him off of the ice.

There’s a single, rough jagged patch of ice nearby, innocuous and incongruous, and Enjolras doesn’t obey the people shouting for him to get off of the ice until he’s scraped it smooth with the blade of his skate.

 

+

 

The judge – well, the _owner,_ who just happens to be a judge on his league, which is just one more example of corruption – pulls Enjolras aside after his scores are announced. The smug smile on Enjolras’ face doesn’t flicker for a second at the owner’s irritation.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” the owner says.

“Expose the fact this is a corrupt and unfair competition? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” Enjolras replies, looking down at the owner, unimpressed. He’s naturally a head taller, and the skates still laced to his feet give Enjolras just enough height that he looks particularly disdainful and intimidating. Hopefully. “And I _will_ expose you. It’s just a matter of time before people can’t help but notice.”

“Your idealism is as charming as ever, Enjolras, but it’s getting on my nerves,” the owner says. He smirks. “And this is having an effect on more than just the judges, you know. Maybe you should think about that before you tell us all to fuck off in your next routine.”

“I did that even before I realized how deeply the corruption goes in this circuit.”

The owner shakes his head, as if he’s disappointed, and points to the scoreboard.

Enjolras is second to last. Grantaire is beneath him in rankings. It’s the third time this has happened, out of the four competitions they’ve had since Enjolras started down this path.

“If you keep this up, he’s out,” the owner says quietly. “He’ll practically bring it on himself at this rate.”

For a moment, Enjolras thinks, _oh god, no_.

And then, his brain kicks back in.

“He _is_ bringing this on himself,” Enjolras agrees, and smiles. It isn’t nice. “How many people show up just in case Grantaire actually decides to skate? How many people follow his career, _just in case_? How many attendees do you think you’d lose if I take him down with me?”

The owner looks unmoved, but there’s uncertainty hidden in his eyes. “If he ever actually performed, that’d be a problem.”

“It _would_ be a problem,” Enjolras agrees. “He’d outclass every single skater and make us all look like awkward six year olds on skates the first time, and you wouldn’t get to keep those little bursts of magnificence for very long, because if he performed, if he _really_ -”

There’s an incredibly loud and familiar clearing of someone’s throat behind him. Enjolras freezes. Well, he winces, and then he goes very still. He tries to pretend that there’s something remotely dignified about this while the owner just raises an eyebrow and walks away.

“ _So_ ,” Grantaire says, dragging the word out.

Enjolras is an adult, so he turns around and faces Grantaire instead of running as fast as he possibly can in skates and sequins. He keeps his chin up, shoulders back, and meets Grantaire and that horrible smile of his as directly as possible. “You _are_ good. Don’t even try to deny that,” he says, and he is very composed and adult-like.

“Bursts of magnificence,” Grantaire repeats.

“Shut up,” Enjolras says, blushing, and gives up on acting like an adult. This is _Grantaire_ , they could be in their sixties and he’d still be immature. He walks firmly towards the locker room, side-stepping to avoid knocking Grantaire’s shoulder as he continues past him.

 

+

 

“New season, new competition,” Courfeyrac says, grinning, and shoves an imaginary microphone in Enjolras’ face. Technically they’re both free to go, but it doesn’t keep them from hanging around in the rink’s bar. “You placed seventh last year as a rookie, and now there’s new blood entering the field – what does that make you feel, Enjolras? Trepidation? Excitement? Frustration?”

“Frustration’s not too far off,” Enjolras says, and playfully shoves Courfeyrac across the bench seat. He goes, laughing, but pulls a folded up list out of his pocket and sets it on the table, smoothing it out as deliberately in Enjolras’ line of sight as possible.

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“Come on, just size them up with me a _little bit_ , that’s all I’m asking,” Courfeyrac says.

“It’s just more competition, Courfeyrac, it’s not like this is a surprise – _no_ ,” Enjolras gasps, standing up so quickly the table nearly topples over. “This list, it’s accurate?”

“It should be,” Courfeyrac says, eyes wide. “What’s-”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Enjolras says, and doesn’t even bother grabbing his coat. He _runs,_ because it’s 4:12 and the schedule says 4:15. Courfeyrac keeps shouting his name, and Enjolras can barely hear it. It’s faster to get to the arena seating for the audience, so Enjolras slams through the doors, and he’s just in time.

He’s skating across the ice – no, _around_ the ice, reaching down and sliding fingers across the places where every blade has marred the ice before his own. He moves easily, naturally, no strain of effort visible as he twists and bends and moves. He’s okay.

“You can start any time now,” one of the judges shouts out, frustrating everyone with minimal effort, and it’s true. God, it’s true, it’s really him.

“Uh,” Courfeyrac says. “Are you okay?”

“He wouldn’t do this,” Enjolras says.

“That sounds like a no,” Courfeyrac murmurs.

“He _wouldn’t_ ,” Enjolras says,. “That can’t possibly be Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac gapes. “Wait, you mean that’s _the_ Grantaire? Grantaire as in angsty-teen-drama boyfriend Grantaire? _He’s_ the cuddlepuff ice prince you’re so -”

“That can’t be Grantaire,” Enjolras says firmly. Possibly desperately.

“What? Why?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Because he’s never done an actual routine. He’s an amazing ice skater but he’s not a _figure_ skater, he couldn’t do formal even if –”

The music comes on.

It’s _Sabre Dance._

Enjolras is pretty sure he’s right and there’s no actual routine, it’s just Grantaire doing as many tricks as big and fast as humanly possible at an obscene pace that miraculously manages to match his absurd circus music, and it’s just. He’d forgotten Grantaire could do this. He’d forgotten a _human being_ could do this.

The shocked silence is broken only by one judge clearing her throat and saying, “Sir, you don’t do cartwheels in professional figure skating routines.”

“Round offs, actually,” Grantaire says, justifiably out of breath. “I’ll read the rule book if it actually applies to me.”

“It does now,” another judge says.

“Great,” Grantaire says, and gives the judges what is undoubtedly a very irritating grin. “See you in a month, then.”

“Get a coach!” Enjolras shouts, loud enough that Courfeyrac jumps.

“Not all of us are whiny babies who need our hand held, Enjolras,” Grantaire shouts back, and turns his head just far enough to look at Enjolras for a millisecond (too fast to read anything beyond _he acknowledged me_ ) before turning back to the judges. “Anything else?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Enjolras is actually right,” the owner says, and shudders at the pain that statement must have caused him. “Get a coach, learn how to be a figure skater, and we’ll see you in a month. If you can actually manage a real routine by then, you’re in.”

“Then I’d better get on that as quickly as possible,” Grantaire says, and skates off without another word, or glance, or _anything_ towards Enjolras.

Enjolras has to sit down. And then he has to put his head between his knees and try to breathe.

He hasn’t actually talked to Grantaire in four years, he didn’t even know talking to him was an _option_. Maybe they’re okay now? Maybe Grantaire’s forgiven him.

Or, maybe Enjolras is a self-centered idiot and this doesn’t even have anything to do with him. This _is_ the amateur pro league. If Grantaire decided to get into professional skating (which he has, apparently), he’s practically required to start in the same league Enjolras is in.

Whatever Grantaire’s reason is, he’s going to be around now.

“I don’t know what to do,” Enjolras says, and nearly yanks half of his hair out in frustration.

 

+

 

“I am really super crazy about you,” Grantaire blurts out.

Enjolras gapes at him.

“Like, really, _really_ into you. To awkward levels, for a long time – and I mean a _long_ time, Enjolras. This isn’t casual, this is so far from casual for me, and I am genuinely terrified,” he says. It’s all rapid-fire words with Grantaire visibly fighting the urge to move – to run away? To come closer? Enjolras can’t even guess. He can only stand there. “And I kept telling myself I’m young and stupid and nobody _actually_ falls in love as a kid, my parents are proof of that, and-”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras says.

“It’s _not_!” Grantaire shouts. “It’s not okay, Enjolras, it’s a _disaster_ , it’s just hormones and it’ll fade and-”

“Do you trust me?” Enjolras asks sharply.

Grantaire looks away and out the window at the falling snow. “I don’t trust _me_.”

Enjolras reminds himself that he’s been getting ready for this for a year, ever since Grantaire’s accident, and that means he is going to be brave and take risks. He walks across the distance between them and says, “I’d trust you with anything and everything. I _do_ trust you, and I know you’re scared, but it’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Carefully, he reaches out, gently pressing his hand against Grantaire’s cheek. His skin is soft and warm. Grantaire stares into Enjolras’ eyes, every nerve in Grantaire’s body obviously tense, ready to jump but with no clue what way he’s going to go.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Grantaire breathes out.

“It won’t end,” Enjolras says with absolute conviction, and kisses him.

 

+

 

“Are you here to compete?” Enjolras finally manages to ask, and hopes Grantaire didn’t notice Enjolras staring at his back and hiding behind a locker for probably twenty minutes.

Considering the way Grantaire startles and nearly drops his skate, Enjolras takes that as a no. When he turns around and looks at Enjolras, he still looks stunned. “Enjolras,” he says, and then nearly drops his skate again when Enjolras steps closer. Grantaire concentrates on that instead, not looking at Enjolras as he grips his skate. “It looks that way, doesn’t it?”

He isn’t quite cold to Enjolras, but there’s a definite wary barrier that Enjolras doesn’t even pretend to be surprised by. Honestly, it’s better than he expected. “I mean it, Grantaire,” he says. “Why-”

“Okay, let’s just get this out of the way right now,” Grantaire says, and starts putting his skate on with a little more force than is necessary. “We’re adults, and we can ignore the past and function around each other just fine. Our relationship is that of co-competitors or whatever you call this sort of thing. Agreed?”

Enjolras had plans for this conversation, and not a single one of them had taken _this_ into account.

“While here, we are going to be professional figure skaters, emphasis on _professional_ , and that’s all,” Grantaire says, and finally looks up at Enjolras. That guarded wall is up, hiding anything Enjolras could use for more explanation. “Is that okay?”

It would be easy to say no and just get this over with, either have Grantaire walk out or maybe take Enjolras back or something, but there’s too much time and too much pride for Enjolras to do it.

“Fine,” Enjolras says, and holds out a hand, giving Grantaire quite possibly the worst handshake of his life because it’s more like Enjolras is just holding his hand tightly and jerking them up and down. He keeps it short and backs away, nodding. “Right. I’ll just leave, then. And good luck with your routine, you know, break a – oh _god_ , I’m leaving now.”

When Enjolras gets to the door, Grantaire is still laughing so hard he looks about ready to fall off of the locker room bench.

 

+

 

Enjolras holds on to his suitcase full of books with a white-knuckled grip, staring at his father’s car.

“Give me the bag,” his father says, impatient.

“No,” Enjolras says, and straightens his spine, tries to look confident and certain. “In fact, I’ll take the other ones back as well. I’m not leaving.”

His father’s eyebrows rise to a record-breaking height. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not leaving,” Enjolras says firmly.

He knows Grantaire is probably watching from the first floor window, so he quickly turns and speed walks back inside, his father hot on his heels. “Stop this at once, young man!” his father shouts, but there’s Grantaire, and Enjolras runs towards him, dropping the suitcase in the process.

“I’m not leaving,” Enjolras says again, and grabs Grantaire’s hand in a grip so tight it’s probably painful. “Grantaire and I are in love and I’m staying with him.”

“What,” Grantaire says.

“ _What_?” Enjolras’ father says, and turns his glare towards Grantaire. “Was this your idea?”

“I didn’t...I mean, we,” Grantaire says, wide eyes frantically flicking between Enjolras and his father. “I have no idea what’s happening.”

“You can’t make me leave him, I don’t want to,” Enjolras says, frantic. “I’m staying with Grantaire, I can’t go ten months without-”

“You’re going to go the rest of your life without seeing him if you keep this up!” Enjolras’ father shouts.

Grantaire holds up his free hand, placating, smiling in a strained kind of way as he says, “Okay, I think there’s a misun-”

“You can’t keep me locked up forever, I’d just run back here so we’d be together-”

“You’re not in love, you’re _seventeen_ ,” his father says, gritting his teeth, and once again, he glares at Grantaire. “Let go of my son.”

Grantaire drops Enjolras’ hand like it’s burning him, both hands quickly tucked in the pocket of his hoodie. “This isn’t what you think it is,” he says quickly.

“The only thing my son is going to do is get in the car,” Enjolras’ father says.

“No, I’m not,” Enjolras says firmly, and hooks his arm through Grantaire’s, glaring at his father. “You can’t break us apart.”

His father is silent. Everything is silent. Enjolras can see Grantaire’s mother frozen in the doorway, glancing quickly between them, and it’s not like they’ve been _hiding_ from her, but he can still see Grantaire pale.

“You need to go, Enjolras,” Grantaire says quietly.

The clench of betrayal in Enjolras’ soul is agonizing and he will never get over it. He’ll never get over _Grantaire_.

“But,” Enjolras says. “But we’re in love.”

“We are, but you still need to go home,” Grantaire says, firmer but still not looking at Enjolras. He pulls his arm away

Enjolras sees the way his father looks satisfied, and Grantaire’s mother looks relieved, and Grantaire’s avoidance, and realizes Grantaire is just giving in to the pressure.

“Coward,” Enjolras whispers, voice breaking right along with his heart. He pulls back, shaking his head at Grantaire before turning on his heel and storming out. He climbs into the back seat of his father’s car, and cries the whole way home.

 

+

 

Enjolras is woken up almost violently when a rock gets hurled through his window and the glass explodes out into the room. He yelps and hides under his bed for about twenty seconds before realizing there’s not another rock headed his way.

It’s freezing out, but Enjolras puts on shoes and his fluffiest of robes and carefully tiptoes his way to the window to investigate, only to see Grantaire standing outside with his head in his hands.

“What are you doing?!” Enjolras whispers down at him.

“Oh god, Enjolras, I am so, so sorry, I thought – I mean, it works in movies, so I just assumed-”

“They don’t shot-put a _brick-sized rock_ at the window in movies, Grantaire! Now what do you want?” Enjolras says.

Grantaire stands there looking incredibly awkward for a while, before he says, “It’s my birthday in seven minutes.”

“Congratulations,” Enjolras says. “Now go away.”

“No, just listen for a second, please,” Grantaire says. “You called me a coward, but I’m not, and I can prove it.”

“Did you get a time machine for your birthday?” Enjolras asks. “Can you magically go back and change your answer?”

Grantaire makes a frustrated noise. “No, but – we’re getting off track here and it’s freezing and you need a new window so I’ll make this quick. Just meet me tomorrow morning at the pond, okay? With skates.”

Enjolras frowns. “I haven’t seen you figure skate once this year,” he says.

“I know,” Grantaire says. “And it’s for good reason. But I’m going to get on that ice and I need you to be there and let me explain, because I _do_ love you-”

“I don’t care,” Enjolras says, voice rising. “I don’t _care_ , Grantaire! You’ve already proved how much that means to you in the face of, of parental disapproval -”

“Oh _come on_ ,” Grantaire objects.

“-and I don’t want to hear it,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire is silent for a long time, before finally saying, “So you’re breaking up with me.”

“Yes, we are broken up, we are no longer dating, _goodbye_ ,” Enjolras says, but they end up just staring at each other some more because Enjolras has no window to dramatically slam shut and if he wants to physically leave he’d have to slowly and cautiously tiptoe away.

“But you might date me again if I miraculously prove to you that I’m not a coward,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras crosses his arms over his chest and pretends he isn’t pretty much giving himself a hug when he says, “Maybe.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning,” Grantaire says firmly, and tromps away through the snow.

 

+

 

Enjolras shoves Grantaire hard against his stupid beat up car, glaring. “ _Stop losing_ ,” he bites out, because he is done. It’s been months of watching Grantaire self-destruct, and Enjolras can’t take it anymore. His fingers clench in the battered fabric of Grantaire’s winter coat. “You’re not-”

“Not what?” Grantaire asks, unimpressed. “Not helping your quest to get thrown out of the league just to prove a point? Not helping you purposely fail at something you love? I’m definitely not doing either of those things no matter how many times you shout at me.”

“I’m not the one ruining their entire career,” Enjolras shouts.

“That is _exactly_ what you’re doing!” Grantaire shouts right back, and pushes him away.

Enjolras laughs as he stumbles backwards, furious and disbelieving. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I _have_ no career, Grantaire! I was ranked twelfth even before this started! I’d be out next year no matter _what_ I did, because I’m not good enough, and the new blood is going to push me out next year, maybe two if I’m lucky. I’m going down, so why not take the corruption down with me?”

“You’re more than good enough,” Grantaire says, frowning. “Enjolras, you’re -”

“It’s _true_ , Grantaire, and it’s fine, I don’t even care anymore, I’ve come to terms with it, but _you,_ ” Enjolras presses a finger to Grantaire’s chest, hard enough to hurt. “You’re _amazing!_ You should be winning Olympic medals, not wasting your time in amateur professional competitions. I don’t even know why you’re still here.”

Grantaire stares at him, mouth slightly open.

“What?” Enjolras snaps.

“You really don’t know, do you,” Grantaire says.

“Obviously I don’t,” Enjolras says. “Are you going to tell me, or – uh.”

Grantaire moves close, deep inside Enjolras’ personal space, and Enjolras finds himself crowded against the cold metal of the tiny sedan parked next to Grantaire. He’s almost bent backwards over the roof trying to keep some sort of distance between them. Enjolras is having trouble breathing, caught by the intensity of Grantaire’s eyes. “Enjolras, why do you think I’m here?”

“To compete,” Enjolras says, giving the automatic answer he’s been using since Grantaire joined the league.

Grantaire’s lips twitch into a smile. “Do you really think I _compete_?” Grantaire asks. “No, that’s what you tell yourself to avoid this.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Enjolras says, and tries to glare. It doesn’t work out. “How can I know what you’re doing? We knew each other years ago, Grantaire, and I _know_ you’ve changed.”

“True, but some things did not change,” Grantaire says. “One specific thing didn’t change. You know I got over your angst attack pretty much while you were having it, right? You don’t have to worry about that.”

Enjolras shakes his head and adjusts slightly, letting himself lose some of the gap between them. “You aren’t the problem. You were never the problem.”

“And you aren’t either,” Grantaire says gently. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought things were destroyed, or if I thought you hated me, or if I thought we’re in any other bad situation. I saw an article about you, and I didn’t even think about it, I just wanted to see you and figured, why not? He skates, I skate, we could skate in the same league-”

“You do realize this is actually hard for other people, right?” Enjolras asks. “That we have to work at it?”

“Of course I know that,” Grantaire says, genuinely offended for a moment before that softness comes back. “But why do you work at it?”

Enjolras doesn’t know what answer to give. He’s a figure skater because figure skating is the only thing that’s ever really made him truly happy. And in the end, he loves figure skating because it reminds him of skating with Grantaire, spending winters smiling together on ice with cold noses and warm legs.

“Why am I here, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks again.

He shakes his head. “Your life doesn’t revolve around me.”

Grantaire makes a frustrated noise. “I never said it did!”

Enjolras glares at him. “Then why would you possibly be here because of me? Nobody throws themselves into professional figure skating because of a crush they met years ago!”

“Having control of my own life doesn’t stop me from wanting you in it,” Grantaire says, obviously straining against the urge to shout.  He backs up and runs a hand down his face while Enjolras finally breathes again. “This is not that hard to understand. I can be independent _and_ in love with you, and make my own choices while keeping the _in love with you_ part in mind-” He stops, and frowns at Enjolras before he looks behind himself, and then turns back to frown so intently it’s almost squinting. “What?”

“You’re really in love with me?” Enjolras asks, incredulous. “Still? After everything that’s happened and everything I’ve said and done and-”

“I’m not even going to touch that right now,” Grantaire says, and rolls his eyes. “I’m just going to say yes. So, yes, I am still in love with you, despite all the horrible irrevocable things you have done to poor defenseless little me. In spite of the brutal tragedy that stands between us, I somehow found it in my eternally broken heart to forgive you-”

“I love you too,” Enjolras says quickly, and manages to stay completely rigid and still, standing between the cars and staring at Grantaire.

“Oh,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras nods, and says, “Yes. I do.”

“Well,” Grantaire says. He stares. And then, he grins. “Well _good_. That’s good. I think that is a good thing.”

“Good,” Enjolras says, and smiles.

 

+

 

“It’s because you look scared,” Grantaire says, looking across the ice.

Enjolras frowns. “What?”

“Every year we’re here, you look absolutely terrified that I’ll make it onto the ice,” Grantaire says. “Some years are better, some are worse – one year you looked about ready to faint, and I just turned around, because I realized it was pointless. I knew it was never going to work. If I wanted to have anything to do with you, I needed to find another way.”

“You don’t know that. It could’ve worked. I’m not scared to admit I was a stupid teenager,” Enjolras says.

“You’re scared of me getting out there and rejecting you,” Grantaire says, and stands, offering a hand for Enjolras.

Enjolras sighs, and nods, taking Grantaire’s hand as he steps onto the ice. “You know I’ve never really loved figure skating, right?”

“I knew that when we were twelve,” Grantaire says, and he’s more careful than he used to be, but still confident and certain as they glide lazily across the pond. “But just so you’re aware, if you really want me to be bringing home Olympic gold, I’m going to need some help on the fancy parts. You know, the big hands grabbing at nothing as you drift slightly to the right. That kind of stuff.”

“In other words, the one part I can do,” Enjolras says, amused.

Grantaire nods solemnly, even if he’s smiling. “I guess you’ll just have to show me how it’s done.”


End file.
